


Flutter

by corrupted_quiet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certain things Dean does overwhelm Castiel; and that's just putting it lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flutter

**Author's Note:**

> the world needs more dean giving castiel blowjobs shhhhhh

Flutter, flutter, flutter; Castiel's eyes flutter like a pair of butterfly's wings. 

The blue glows with surging pleasure, a stark contrast to the deep hue of red colouring his cheeks and face, the heavy flush revealing the overwhelming boil of his blood and the intoxicating bliss smothering him where he leans.

While his lungs starve for air, desperate for a single breath, a pant, a gasp, he keeps his mouth clamped shut, edges of his teeth digging into the chapped layers of fleshy lip. Every inhale is funnelling fire through his nose, each exhale the weakest expel of steam, never enough to prevent overheating, not when all the gears and pipes pump and turn so quickly, keeping his body tense and atremble.

He is an angel of humid cloud, condensing rapidly as the moisture of a spring morning so recently sprinkled with rain and drizzled with dew. From head to head, up it rises, bringing forth the thrumming of heart strings played on a harp, plucking the tightened gossamers gingerly, coaxing the light and airy chokes from deep in Castiel's throat.

Despite the smothering blanket of wet heat, red and perspiring, his mouth feels parched and chalky, gasps white as a dust from a blackboard. He licks over his lips—never did they feel so chapped and dry—the thin veneer of spit so quickly melding with the torrid air. Everything is just a dampened mist, all weighed down with salt and beaten with warmth.

He thinks this is just an exaggeration, his senses too keen and acute to handle some of the sensations, overwhelming humanity encroaching and compromising his angelic perception. He bats his eyes, his weak distraction against the sharpness, the sweet and sweltering sharpness.

Eyes fluttering. Head bobbing. Teeth digging into the fleshy interior of his cheek.

_Gasp._

He tightly clutches a clump of Dean's hair, gripping his crown and lightly pulling the strands, each one bristling and brushing against his fingers. Each atom-fine tip of the thin stalks of burnt honey tickles, rubbing in its own unique way, each and every one of them, leaving their own fingerprint distinct sensations to surge and resound through Castiel’s body.

And while each prickle strips Castiel of all breath, leaving his throat eternally dry and doomed to rasp out husky tones, Dean’s mouth couldn’t be wetter, the coat of hot spit rolled onto his tongue, the plaster of saliva keeping the fleshy walls of his cheeks hot and welcoming as sweet hallowed asylum. The walls close in just the right places, tailoring to his angel’s fit, making it snug as possible, only ever leaving room for a ravenous tongue that swirls and dances around, the tip there for caressing and the buds there for embrace.

Dean practically purrs at the angel’s stirs, each stressed groan escaping his lips another note of success; he’s doing well. _Of course_ he’s doing well; though not often flaunted, this is an area of Dean’s seemingly endless finesse, a prowess only truly known by Castiel when he’s up against a wall, or seated on the edge of a bed, or in this case leaning on the counter of a motel sink. Not the classiest, maybe, but scenery never detracts from _talent_ —and Dean has _plenty_ of that.

            A hard gulp, a ball of battery acid rolling down Castiel’s throat, eyes pinched shut as he presses back. One hand yanks at Dean’s hair—a twitch, a reflex, a natural reaction of some pleasurable nature—while the other scratches the porcelain basin, index finger falling into one of the drilled holes in the side.

An arid sigh flares up from his lungs, bucking forward to give Dean a better angle, nails nearly tarnishing the creamy off-white sink. His eyes open in a shot, everything heightened and enhanced, feeling the warmth engulfing him, deeper down near the back of Dean’s throat.

A smirk pulls at Dean’s lips, the corners curving up as a quavering finger rubs the top of his head, a goad to _go on, go on, go on_. Not forceful, just a gentle and soothing suggestion, one Dean’s more than happy to oblige to.

His lips roll over the florid skin—base-shaft-tip, tip-shaft-base, repeat—adding the lightest hum, tempo only speeding the more Castiel panted, the sharper his inhales were, the more exasperated his exhales, the chiming of bone-dry moans.

He’s close. Dean knows he’s close. Castiel knows he’s close. _So close_.

Castiel only feels the tightening tremors of force when Dean starts pulling back, back, back— _too_ far back— _no, no, no!_ His fingers knot with the short lengths of hair, pulling back towards him, eager and earnest. Not yet, not now, just wait, wait a little longer...

Dean folds in his upper lip, lowering himself so he can manoeuvre his mouth, tongue and lower lip forming a stable steady bed while he tilts his head up, olive eyes widely gazing up at Castiel, head barely past the line of his teeth.

Castiel’s lingering fingers twist Dean’s hair, lead heavy head moving forward, eyes fixing down.

A blink, blink, blink and blink again, and there’s Dean, mouth open, resting Castiel on the cusp of release, the glister in his eyes showing just how much he enjoys teasing the angel.

Eye contact is all Dean needs, all he needs to break some of Castiel’s concentration, focusing too much on the gaze to concern himself with keeping Dean’s head fixed in one place. He eases back, tongue wrapping round, nearly sitting on his knees when the too red tip of his tongue meets Castiel’s too red tip.

A simple flick and Dean’s wet touch is gone, leaving Castiel’s knees slightly shaking, but still not enough to coax the long sought release.

Castiel opens his mouth, ready to croak out an imploring command, but can’t squeeze in a word, not when Dean grabs the brim of his jeans and jostles him. Not an ounce of venom or spite can creep into his mouth, not when Dean’s look snuffs out the short-lived flickers of annoyance. Then, with salacious eyes, he speaks in a sandpaper-rough tone drizzled with assertion:

_“I come first.”_


End file.
